


A Double-Blind Clinical Study of the Effectiveness of Unconditional Love

by quinoaquin



Series: Redeemable Series [psychopath!Crowley AU] [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Abusive Parents, Angst, Crowley Needs a Hug (Good Omens), Human AU, Lots of it, Psychopathology & Sociopathy, This is a prequel to Unknowable sort of, kid!crowley, please read the notes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-25
Updated: 2020-02-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:49:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22891993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quinoaquin/pseuds/quinoaquin
Summary: Crowley was born with so many faults he never really stood a snowflake's chance in hell.(A high-functioning-sociopath-kid!Crowley human AU nobody asked for!)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Redeemable Series [psychopath!Crowley AU] [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1650787
Comments: 1
Kudos: 16





	A Double-Blind Clinical Study of the Effectiveness of Unconditional Love

**Author's Note:**

> This is actually chapter 12 of Unknowable (Crowley/Az) yall!!! But I think it works as a standalone and you can probably read them in any order.

Crowley was born with so many faults he never really stood a snowflake's chance in hell.  


He came out of the womb _silent_ , according to his mother. Of course the doctors had actually explained to her that he'd been affected by the many pain medication and sedatives she had received before and during the painful childbirth, but his mother would tell him a very different story.  


His hair was an unnaturally deep red. Another rare phenomenon with a medical explanation that was just a tad too complicated for his mother to fully understand, so she made up her own. She would start dyeing it brown before he was old enough to know he had hair at all.

Worst of all were his eyes. It wasn't just the yellow of his irises - there also used to be two dark patches that ran vertically over his pupils, making them look like slits. It disappeared on it's own after a few months just like the doctors said it would, but the unsettling yellow remained.  _Oh, those damned eyes of yours, Crowley...'_ his mother would whisper to him on a good day after she'd allowed him to climb onto her lap and leech off her warmth. _'You know they were so much more terrible when you were born. Oh it took hours to get you out of me and then I saw those- oh, those terrible, terrible-'._

And of course eventually he started speaking, and his speech disorder revealed itself, his hissed s's making him appear even more sinister and snake-like than he already was. 

Monsters and demons were make-believe but for all intents and purposes, that's what Crowley was.

* * *

Crowley was probably the only six year old boy in the whole of England who knew words like "demonic child possession" and "grandiose–manipulative and callous–unemotional psychopathic traits". He had seen at least five different therapists by the time (his father picked those when he could find the time), had regular visits from their priest (his mother insisted), was on several different medications and had already been institutionalized once (best to get an early start and get used to it, really).

On the day of his seventh birthday, however, he would learn of a completely new form of therapy. One that was more to his mother's liking.

On the night before his seventh birthday, Crowley was kneeling in front of his bed, hands clasped with his elbows resting on the covers, murmuring his evening prayers. _Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy Name._ Nothing heartfelt, nothing true or unique - the old classics were always the safest bet.  


Much like every other night, he'd left the door open, hoping his mother would see him if she happened to walk by, her demon son praying dutifully. She might say something like ' _oh, oh I'm so proud of you, ~~Josh~~ Crowley, so so proud of you, look at that!_' like he heard his classmate's mother say once, and all Josh had done was win some stupid plastic trophy for a picture he drew of his family.  (Crowley heard it because he had to stay there after class and wait for his mother in the principle's office, so he could be scolded and asked things about his drawing that he didn't know how to answer, and the car ride home would be a deathly silence except for the loud crumpling of his drawing as his mother smashed it in her hand and threw it out the window.)

She didn't walk by, and it was probably for the best.

. . .

He woke up the next day feeling possibly quite excited for his birthday party.

Unfortunately, as he would soon find out, the party had been cancelled (in fact had never been planned to begin with) - after all, it really would have been terribly impolite to have a house full of children when you were about to receive a visit from Vatican's top exorcist. Indeed, his family was as rich as it was hysterical. You would expect five hours of staring at crosses and having an old man in a dress chant things like ' _Pray therefore the God of Peace to crush Satan beneath our feet, take hold of the dragon, the old serpent, which is the devil and Satan, bind him and cast him into the bottomless pit that he may no longer seduce the nations_ ' would be quite boring, but actually, it was very much a terrifying ordeal for someone who's only been seven for nine hours. They wouldn't untie him to let him go to the bathroom, and when he peed himself everybody in the room pretended not to notice.

(He stayed up late and waited for his father that day, and when he finally walked tiredly through the front door - a look of disappointment on his face when he saw that Crowley was awake - Crowley hurried over, knowing he only had as much time as it took for his father to shuffle over to the coat-hanger, then across the hall to the living room where the door that led into the side of the building only his father was allowed to enter was. (After that, who knew when he'd see him again.) Crowley struggled to speak as fast as he could, telling his father everything that had happened, and some more.  "Crazy fuckin' woman," his father murmured to himself right before he shut the door behind him, the lock clicking, and Crowley had successfully avoided spending another birthday staring at a cross or being sprayed with holy water.)

* * *

Their new gardener was a middle-aged woman with long brown hair and kind eyes, a different flower in her hair every day and the tips of her fingernails always dirty from the soil.

Crowley would hide in his secret hiding places all around their property, waiting for her to walk by so he could see the flower more clearly. He'd draw them (terribly, of course) in his little notebook, marking the date.

After a few days, he finally stopped hiding and began to purposefully walk by where she was working. She would look up when she heard the steps, smiling broadly at Crowley and giving him a little wave each time. Crowley would divert his eyes quickly, speeding up and walking straight back into the house.

It took a few weeks before he finally waved back one day, and the woman smiled so brightly that Crowley's head twitched to the side, tempted to turn around to check if perhaps she'd been waving to someone else. He bolted back to the house. 

" _You were just like a cat_ ," she'd tell him later, smiling warmly. " _All careful and distrusting, testing me. Making sure I was a friend. Weren't you, sweet boy?_ "

And just like a cat, curiosity got the better of him one sunny day when he finally walked over to the lady who was kneeling in front of a patch of flowers. But the curiosity didn't kill the cat - in fact, it would turn out to be one of the best ideas the cat ever had. 

Miss only came every other day, sometimes even less often, but Crowley spent every possible moment glued to her side.

Sometimes he would sit next to her as she replanted flowers, watching in silence as her gentle hands handled them with such care, holding them up for Crowley to look at the exposed roots, saying things like 'oh, look at our poor friend, he could certainly do with a little more space' and asking Crowley to pick the new pots. ' _Ah, did you hear that? I think it just said 'thank you' in Plantonese!'_ Of course Crowley knew plants couldn't really do anything of the sort, and he didn't understand why Miss always treated them with such care. He wondered what she would do if Crowley suddenly pulled off all it's gentle little green leaves and starved it of the sun, or if he tore off it's fragile roots so it wouldn't be able to drink. Perhaps she would cry and scream the way his cousin Annie had when he pulled off the wings of a butterfly she'd caught, or perhaps she would drag him to his room by his hair like his mother had when he cut up her favourite dress).

Sometimes they would spend hours kneeling in the dirt, picking snails off of salads and lettuce heads, _gently_ transferring them into a large bucket which they then carried off into the woods. They sat with their backs against a tree, eating sandwiches and watching the snails slowly climb their way out. ' _Look, Crowley, last one. Oh, you really took your sweet time, didn't you, Brother Snail? Ah but we mustn't blame him, perhaps he's an old man!' (_ Crowley wanted to stomp it with his feet as hard as he could, to hear it's fragile shell go _CRACKcrackcrack_ and see if the slimy thing could still crawl after. But he liked spending time with Miss and didn't think she would appreciate that very much at all.) _  
_

* * *

Crowley's ninth birthday was the best day of his life.

Crowley had given up in the middle of his evening prayers the night before in favor of laying on his back on the bed and staring at the ceiling unmovingly, swimming around in the pool of thoughts in his head, letting them grab at him and pull him in any direction. It must have been nearly midnight when he sat up on the bed with a single idea in his head.

He knew what he wanted for his birthday.

Crowley jumped off the bed and walked over to the mirror. His hair was freshly dyed, same shade of brown as his father's, and green contacts were still in his eyes. 

"Plea _sss_ e, father, could I-"

He stopped, frowning at himself. No, no, not right.

He opened his eyes wide and pinched the skin under his eyes, pulling down hard. He stared unblinkingly until his eyes started turning red and water gathered over and around them.

"Pleasse, father," he tried again, blinking finally, and a drop ran down his cheek.

Crowley ran downstairs and to the door in the living room that led to his father's study. He pressed the little bell that made no sound and we waited patiently, barely blinking in the several long minutes it took for the door to finally open. His father, shocked and confused by his son's sudden visible distress, stood and listened patiently as Crowley quickly explained what he wanted for his birthday - for Miss to become his new nanny.

Crowley _hated_ his nannies - he'd known since he was six that they were really just therapists and the old men never tried very hard to hide it. And they were _boring_ and Crowley _hated_ them, and Miss was his _friend_ and if he could spend so much more time with her it would be the best thing in the world, and he would behave perfectly forever if his father would just grant him this one birthday wish, he didn't even want a party or presents or anything at all. ' _Please father, please!_ '

Incredibly, his father promised to think about it, and Crowley could barely fall asleep from the excitement. 

. . .

Crowley sat at the top of the stairs where he couldn't be spotted by the people that were currently talking loudly in the living room.

"He's a nine year old boy, not a mastermind manipulator." He could barely recognize Miss' voice, it was so different from when she spoke to him or- anyone, really.

"Superficial charm and the generally polished outward surface of those with psychopathic traits can mask the emotionally devoid or deviant aspects of a psychopathic individual. _Even_ this early." The voice of the current 'nanny' man.

"And you are dismissing _genuine_ expressions of regret, of love-"

"With all due respect, ma'am, I will not have a _gardener_ lecture me on-"

"Oh for Christ's sa- _love_!" his father's deep voice roared, interrupting the other man. " _Love_! Really! You've known this boy for barely a year and you- well. Please. Do share with us, ma'am. When was it that my son has expressed _love_ , then? Perhaps _love_ had been the reason we had to throw out a £300k carpet because he'd gone and painted it red with the insides of a damned rat?!" 

Wasn't all red, Crowley remembered. The stomach was soft and squishy and broke easily when Crowley pressed a finger against it, and the insides were a bright green mushy paste that spread smoothly over the carpet like pea hummus on bread.

"Perhaps we had to find a new kindergarten for him because all of the other children were too frightened of his _love_? Was his teacher rushed to the hospital last year due to his _love_ , and not because he'd poured _bloody rat poison_ into her coffee? _Well_?!"

They were all quiet for a while - his father had that effect on people.

"Well," said Miss finally. "I can't speak for the rest of the incidents because I wasn't around yet but have you ever asked him why he did that to his teacher?"

"Of course I bloody well have! And everything that came out of his mouth was a lie!"

That was true. Crowley couldn't remember the last time he was truthful with his father.

"But let me guess," he continued. "Whatever he told _you_ was the truth, was it, ma'am?"

"Perhaps you can tell me that, sir. I _have_ been wondering ever since where in the world an eight-year-old boy could possibly have heard the words ' _Jewish rat'_ to describe his teacher?"

There was a long silence before his nanny spoke again, his voice a shade less authoritative than before.

"With all due respect, ma'am, I'm sure you are very good at your job, and it's clear to me that- that you love this boy. But I think you're simply _refusing_ to acknowledge the alarming degree of psychopathic traits that this child has been displaying almost from birth, and you're not going to cure him with but unconditional love."

"Ah, I suppose you've tested that hypothesis, have you, doctor? A privately funded double-blind clinical study of the effectiveness of _unconditional love_?" she said with a mean tone. "How will he ever know love if it isn't _shown_ to him?"

"Of course it must be shown to him, but not in the hopes that he will actually _experience_ it. That's not how it works, not with a child with this level of hypo-arousal, apathy, low emotional responses. He has to realize what he can _gain_ by mimicking good behavior, and _that_ will be his incentive. But it needs to be controlled by a professional, someone who understands all his psychopathy entails, and who knows how to recognize when they're being purposefully misled and lied to."

"But not someone who can recognize his love? Someone who can _return_ it?"

. . .

"I'm _sssss_ orry I got you in trouble," Crowley said without noticing he was smiling. He would see Miss _every day_ now.

"That's very kind of you to say, Crowley, thank you," she smiled. "But _I'm_ not the one who's in trouble. _You_ are."

Crowley's smile fell.

"You've gone and gotten yourself the _strictest_ nanny in the _world_!" she exclaimed, raising her chin and pressing her lips together in mock seriousness.

Crowley's mouth twisted into a smile as he watched her with wide eyes.

"Why, I'll have you scraping the floors and shining silver all day long!"

Crowley made a sound like an abrupt laugh, a bubbling feeling deep in his stomach as he watched Miss dramatically wave her arms around with a twinkle in her eye.

"That's right, young man! No more running around the house and eating cookies every day!"

She was smiling now, so bright and wide, and when she opened her arms, Crowley ran and crushed into her.

"Ah, and my poor garden. Who will take care of it now that I will be so busy loving you every day?"

* * *

"It made me quite sad to see that cat today. It's sad when someone dies, isn't it? I think it's much better when they're alive and happy and they can play outside in the sun and have lots of dessert for dinner and things like that. Don't you think so?"

(She had found him earlier that day poking at a dead cat with two short sticks, tinkering with it's insides. Crowley almost thought she wouldn't mention it again.)

"Would it be okay if I asked you some questions about what you were doing?"

Crowley kept eating, his eyes stubbornly on his plate. He shrugged.

"Did you find her by the side of the road? Perhaps... a car had hit poor Sister Cat?" she asked hopefully, but Crowley just kept moving the food around his plate, avoiding her gaze.

"Where did you find her then? Can you tell me?" she pressed but Crowley kept staring at his plate, saying nothing.

"It's okay, darling. Whatever happened, you can tell me. Anything at all," she said kindly. "Did you hurt her?"

Crowley dropped his head lower, turning a little to the side and away from her gaze. Then a tiny nod.

"How did that make you feel? Good? Happy?"

The boy shrugged and poked at the beans on his plate.

"Hmm. Were you just curious?"

He thought for a bit, then nodded.

"What were you curious about?"

She sounded sad. The fork scraped against the plate loudly and Crowley tried to repeat the motion, pressing the fork down hard as he dragged it over the porcelain.

"It's alright, I'm not angry with you. I'm just sad for Sister Cat," she said, apparently unwilling to accept the screeching sounds for an answer. "It doesn't make you sad?"

Crowley curled in on himself even more, refusing to answer.

"We really need to talk about this, my dear," she said sadly. "You hurt someone very badly. So much we can't ever fix it."

Crowley's hand tightened around the fork. "You only care about everyone el _sssss_ e," he hissed.

"Do you really think that?"

"I _know_ it! You _hate_ me!"

"That's not true at all, Crowley. I love you with all my heart."

"No!" he screamed, slamming the fork against the table. She jumped in her seat and his lip began to tremble. "You hate me, you _hate_ me!"

"Are you saying that to hurt me or do you really mean it?" she asked then and his eyes quickly darted to her, searching her face.

She sighed and pulled her chair back from the table. "Come here, you precious boy," she said, patting her knees with a kind smile and Crowley immediately shot up from his seat, stumbling to her side of the table and sitting in her lap, wrapping his arms around her tight as a coil in case she changed her mind.

She wrapped her arms around him in turn. "Can you feel how I love you?" she said into his hair and Crowley buried his head into her sweater.

"It's okay if you don't feel sad about Sister Cat. It's not your fault how you feel, my sweet child, not at all," she murmured soothingly. "But you can't ever ever hurt your Brothers and Sisters, Crowley. Even if you're curious, even if you want to. That's a _rule_ , an important one. Much, _much_ more important than brushing your teeth every night or checking if the soil is dry before watering. It's one of _the most_ important rules of all. Will you promise me that you'll always try your best to follow it?"

"I promissse," he said immediately and closed his eyes, fisting her shirt in his hands.

. . .

Promises were one of Crowley's favorite things. They were like _magic_. All you had to do was _say the words_ (in a very particular way, but Crowley was a quick learner) and people would think you had no choice but to keep them. It was so _silly,_ Crowley couldn't believe it even worked on adults. Of course it stopped working once they realized what a terrible track record he had when it came to promises. Miss knew it well, so he used them sparingly with her and even tried his best to convince himself he really was bound by some sort of magic and forced to keep them. And who knew, maybe _some_ promises really were magic.  
  


* * *

Crowley stood in front of the cage, watching the large turkey. It took several minutes for it to calm down and stop producing the screaming noises, seemingly giving up and accepting it's fate of being stared at.

"Hello," said Crowley, feeling stupid. "My name's Crowley."

It ruffled it's wings a little at that but made no other recognizable signs of comprehension.

Tomorrow when the butcher comes, the bird will squawk loudly and flap it's wings pointlessly and try to get away, Crowley thought, but the butcher was a large man who would easily subdue the fattened bird. How will he kill it? With a knife? A twist of the neck? Crowley had never hurt anything this big. Wasn't allowed to hurt much of anything anymore really, not since Miss had made him promise. She even looked so incredibly sad and disappointed when she saw him cut a worm in half with a sharp rock (he didn't _know_ worms counted) and he never took another risk since.

('Look, Crowley, can you see him?' she would always say so urgently, pointing at some animal they had come across. 'Look at what they are doing or what is happening to them and try to remember how it feels when those things happen to you.')

He suddenly slammed his hands against the cage, rattling it and causing the turkey to jerk and cry out in fear. He watched with wide eyes as the bird tried to squeeze itself through the bars on the other side of the cage.

"Oh, sweet boy, just who I was looking for!"

Crowley jumped, a momentary feeling of guilt washing over him. "G-Good morning, Miss."

"Oh my, and just who might this handsome fellow be?" she exclaimed while keeping her voice soft. "Why, if it isn't Brother Turkey! How lovely to meet you, dear friend," she turned her joyous smile to Crowley, then back at the cage. "Don't worry, Crowley and I are your friends. Nothing to be scared of."

"I ssscared him," Crowley said quickly, then swallowed nervously. "On purpose."

"Oh. Would you like to try and apologize to him?"

Crowley looked at her, trying to decipher what was expected of him. He nodded then and she motioned for him to walk closer to the cage.

"Um, B-Brother Turkey," Crowley started, clasping his hands in front of him instinctively, like in prayer. "I'm sssorry for... for making you feel bad."

His eyes darted to her, questioning.

"Don't look at me, Crowley, it's not me you're apologizing to," she said sternly.

He turned back quickly, a regretful look spreading over his face on reflex as he registered the disappointed tone.

"I didn't mean to be quite so harsh, darling, I'm sorry," she said after a moment. "Look at him, Crowley. Can you see him?"

Crowley stared at it hard, but it wouldn't look back. It was still pressed against the other side of the cage, squawking dumbly and not acknowledging him. Nobody's going to ask the butcher to stand here and _see_ the stupid bird tomorrow, Crowley thought angrily.

"No. It's just a _ssss_ tupid bird," he said unkindly, crossing his arms. "This is childish! It doesn't _understand_ us!"

The fact that she couldn't hide the disappointment only made him more angry. She moved then, walking a few feet to a sack nearby, grabbing a fistful of grains. She walked over to the cage in a soft, nonthreatening way that made Crowley's anger and frustration melt away almost completely, and she sat down next to where Crowley was standing. She extended her hand through the bars and opened her palm.

"Sorry you had a bit of a scare earlier, my friend. But a snack always makes everything better, in my opinion."

She waited patiently, shaking her hand every now and then to make a few grains fall and make a sound that was probably tempting for the bird. It finally made it's way over slowly, standing as far away as it could while still being able to reach her hand and peck at a few grains.

Miss smiled. "See? Brother Turkey isn't stupid at all, he's quite smart. He just doesn't understand our language, he doesn't know the words. I gave him a snack to say 'I'm your friend'."

Miss slowly dropped her hand lower and let the grains seep between her fingers. She removed her hand and the bird hurried closer, pecking at the grains in earnest. She wiped her hand against her pants and motioned for Crowley to sit down.

"Crowley, I know you're a big boy now. Getting too old for my silliness, aren't you?"

Crowley shook his head vehemently.

"Of course he doesn't understand what the word 'sorry' means, or 'I'm your friend' or any of that. But when you really believe what you are saying, when you really _feel_ it, then he will feel it too. You can't just say the words, you have to _mean_ them."

"Look, Crowley," she said then, turning to point at the turkey. "What do you see? Can you see him?" _  
_

"Good," Crowley said without thinking. "I- he's happy. He's- enjoying the food," he added, concentrating on the bird. He could feel that pleasure reflected in himself, and in the moment the bird finally turned it's head, alien eye looking straight into Crowley's own, he suddenly knew what Miss had meant this entire time. He could see him - could _see_ Brother Turkey, that _real_ thing behind the meaty and feathery shell, the thing that was _alive_ , the thing that made it not an 'it' but a 'them', a them who had an 'I', like Crowley.

It only lasted for a moment - long enough for Crowley to open his mouth and say 'sorry' suddenly and without realizing it, then the moment was gone, leaving only a confused frown on Crowley's face and a strange lingering feeling.

"Oh, sweet boy," she said with a happy sigh, witnessing the unmistakably _sincere_ apology, and she leaned froward to wrap her arms around him, squeezing him tightly. There had been a shift in Crowley in that moment before he had apologized to the bird, one that was barely visible but she had noticed it immediately - a sudden gentleness to his demeanor, like there was kindness behind his intentions. " _I see you_ , Crowley," she said to him, holding his face between her hands and pressing their noses together in that gentle way of hers and Crowley stared back into her eyes. "I see you and you're absolutely _wonderful_ , my beautiful, precious, golden-eyed boy," she ruffled his hair and her heart was full of love when he gave her a shy smile. Not as sincere anymore, but she smiled back.

" _Now_ ," she said, standing up and dusting off her pants. "What do you say we sneak Brother Turkey out of here and make everyone eat plain mashed potatoes and peas tomorrow instead?"

. . .

Crowley's mother broke their most expensive set of plates the next day in her uncontrollable rage and some of the family members that had come over for the feast seemed so terribly bothered and disappointed that they returned to their cars and left. Crowley sat at a table with a few of his cousins, all happily shoving mashed potatoes into their mouths, and Crowley thought eating something as awful as peas was worth it in exchange for Brother Turkey sleeping safe and sound in Miss' home instead of being shoved into the mouths of his stupid cousins, and if it meant he had another excuse to visit her house again, well, that was a good thing too.

* * *

It was a hot summer day, and they were resting comfortably in the shade, drinking lemonade Crowley had made to apologize for a bad thing he had done a few days before. It was particularly bad, Crowley guessed, because the look she had given him that day was one he'd never seen before, and one he didn't much enjoy thinking about it either. He was hoping the lemonade would be enough for her to forgive him like she always did.

"Crowley, do you think you could go get us both another glass?" she asked and Crowley nodded hard, glad she finally broke the silence, stumbling to his feet and walking to the house to pour her another glass of the cool lemonade, with a new straw and everything, one that matched the color of that day's flower, and when she gave him a small smile he felt his heart beam.

"Do you remember what I told you last time?" she asked after a while, when she was done with her drink.

"Lots of things, Miss, you talk a lot," he teased her. Crowley had gotten better at telling jokes and being funny (in an acceptable way) and used it often to his advantage. People were more likely to forgive you or stop asking you questions or do what you want if you made them laugh or smile first. Miss didn't particularly care for this new skill of his.

"Hmm," she said without smiling, and turned to watch the view before them. 

Crowley held the glass with both hands and sipped at his drink slowly to stall for time. 

"Oh are you done with your lemonade? There's more, I can go get it!" When she didn't move to hand him her empty glass, he turned away again and leaned back into his chair, scratching at the glass with his thumb. "Aren't we going to the museum today, Miss? You _promisssed_ ," he tried, but still she remained silent, staring ahead stubbornly. "I fell yesterday," he said, pointing at the large band-aid above his knee. "I wanted to put thosse healing leaves on it but I forgot where they grow, can we-"

"Crowley," she said finally, turning to look at him. Crowley recognized the look because he'd seen it on his mother so many times before. Was Miss seeing what his mother saw when she looked at him? He turned away quickly and squeezed his eyes shut, instinctively trying to hide his evil eyes.

"Oh sweetheart," she said, gently, but not as gently as she used to. The older Crowley got, the more her love for him dimmed. The more she knew him, the less she loved him. The more desperately he tried to grab onto her, the more quickly and surely she slipped away. "Will you look at me, dear?"

He opened his eyes but kept them glued on the glass he was cradling in his lap. He squeezed hard with both hands, hoping it would break.

"I wish I understood why you did what you did, Crowley. I try so hard to understand you, and I know you try hard too, to understand me."

Crowley squeezed even harder, his skin white against the glass.

"And I'm not leaving because of anything you did. I need you to remember that. I-"

Crowley suddenly raised his hand and hurled the glass, and it landed on a rock, shattering. He stared at the shards shining in the sun.

They sat in silence for a few moments before she moved to put on her shoes and got up without a word, walking over to the scene of the crime.

When she went to kneel down, Crowley suddenly leaped out of his chair, running towards her as fast as he could and slammed against her, knocking her over. She let out a scream, and Crowley took a step back. She turned around swiftly to look at the boy.

He watched with wide amber eyes as Miss' face twisted into an expression he didn't understand. She was cradling her left hand which had sustained most of the damage - little cuts and beads of blood were scattered over her entire palm and forearm, mixed in with dirt and bits of grass, and an especially nasty looking piece of broken glass was sticking out of the meat of her forearm in a way that made Crowley experience that particularly pleasant feeling he only ever experienced when he did things he wasn't supposed to do. Blood was almost pouring out from around it.

"Crowley," he heard a voice say and he blinked. "Crowley, do you understand that you've hurt me quite badly?"

Crowley watched the strange look on her face. Nodded.

"You have to- you have to run and get help, Crowley. As- as fast as you can. Can you do that?"

He reached towards her then, fingers nearly brushing the bloodied piece of glass before she snatched it away and yelled his name so loudly (he'd never ever heard her yell before) that he snapped out of it and started sprinting towards the house without another word of instruction from her.

. . .

She forgave him, always did, but she still left.

* * *

_"Stop it with that miserable woman! She'd_ dead _, didn't I tell you? Cancer ate up all her insides, perhaps she'd gone and spent too much time around a devil child!"_

* * *

"You're old enough to do this on your own now, Crowley. Watch," his mother said, turning to the horse. "Down," she said in a strong voice. "Down!" she repeated, raising the whip for the horse to see, and it lowered itself clumsily to kneel on it's front legs.

His mother smiled, handing the whip to Crowley. "Now you try," she said, pushing him towards the horse who struggled to get back up.

Crowley walked closer and stared at it. ( _What do you see? Can you see him?)_ The horse stared back, it's eyes unreadable. He looked down at the whip in his hand.

"Brother Horssse," Crowley tried, whispering. (' _Brother Horse! Shall we go for a walk or would you prefer to keep grazing?_ ') 

"Get a move on!" he heard his mother call out from behind him.

"I h-have to- can I-?" he stammered. (' _Would you mind terribly if this young man here sat on your back? Oh, he's light as a feather, it won't be a bother at all. What do you think, friend?_ ')

"You have to get down." (' _I think he doesn't mind. Oh, aren't we lucky to have such a kind friend, Crowley?_ ') 

The horse stared at him, no recognition in it's eyes, and Crowley felt a spark of anger as his hand tightened around the whip - that hateful thing she could never stand to even look at. (' _Careful - we must always be careful not to hurt our friend, even by accident!'_ ) 

"Down," he said, unconvincingly, and the horse didn't move. (' _When you really_ feel _it, then he will feel it too. You can't just say the words, you have to_ mean _it._ ')

"D-Down!" he repeated with more force. He raised his hand, mimicking his mother's threatening body language.

The horse finally reacted, shuffling backwards.

" _Down_!" Crowley repeated again and the horse finally obeyed, dropping to it's front knees, and Crowley stood as if paralyzed, staring at the kneeling horse with wide eyes.

His mother watched from a few feet away, her arms crossed.

"What in the bloody hell are you waiting for? Climb on it, you stupid boy!" she called out. _Couldn't do a single thing right, could he, her son, not a single bloody thing. Had to make everything difficult_. She watched with a frown as he continued to stand there in front of the horse, unmoving, whip still raised high.

Her eyes widened the first time the whip came down over the horse's back, words stuck in her throat as the horse bellowed. The whip came down two more times before she reacted, and she screamed out Crowley's name. He didn't seem to hear her at all, striking at the restrained animal without pause. It took real strength to pull him away from the howling horse.

. . .

That day Crowley met a little brown-eyed girl that he was certain was an angel sent by Miss to punish him for breaking the most important rule.

**Author's Note:**

> (Chapter 1 of Unknowable takes off from here)


End file.
